Skeleton Hill (10 page)

Wigfull gave the picture a squint. ‘Who’s this, then?’

‘Rupert.’

‘Rupert who?’

‘Rupert Bear, and I’m Bill Badger. Come on, John. I know it’s early in the day, but you can see it’s the same guy as the one in the paper.’

‘He doesn’t look the same.’

‘He’s dead, that’s why.’ He was tempted to go into the Monty Python dead parrot routine, which he knew by heart, but it would be wasted on Wigfull. ‘We found him yesterday in the graveyard up at Beckford’s Tower.’

‘You think this is Rupert Hope?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Dead?’

‘Were you hoping for a happy ending? Is that what this is about? Compare the pictures. Look at the hairline, the eyebrows, the mouth.’

‘I suppose it could be him,’ Wigfull said finally. ‘How long has he been dead?’

‘Yesterday, or the night before. No longer.’

‘Where was he all this time?’

‘He wasn’t in any condition to tell me. I’m telling you as much as I know. He looked as if he’d been living rough for some days, but it was obvious he wasn’t a long-term homeless man.’

‘What did he die of ?’

‘I don’t want to anticipate the post mortem, which is happening as we speak, but my money is on the three-inch wound at the back of his head.’

‘A violent death, then?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Pity. I thought he’d turn up alive.’

‘Thanks to your press release? You can’t win them all, John. What I need to know from you is where the story came from. Who reported it?’

‘The university people. The last anyone saw of him was on the day of the battle re-enactment.’

‘So he went missing for – what? – two and a half weeks and ended up dead, probably murdered. I’m going to have to find out a whole lot more about this guy. Did you speak to anyone from the Civil War Society, or whatever they call themselves?’

Wigfull shook his head. ‘I’m the media relations manager, not a detective. However . . .’ He cleared his throat and turned a shade more pink. ‘I did speak to a couple of people who responded to the newspaper appeal. They were claiming to have spotted the man up at Lansdown.’

‘When was this?’

‘One woman said she’d seen him at the car boot sale on Sunday. He helped himself to a meat pie she had for sale and wouldn’t or couldn’t pay for it. She described him as a down-and-out, scruffy, in a hooded jacket and jeans, but said he had a posh accent. The other witness saw a similar man apparently trying to break into cars.’

‘Where?’

‘The same place – the racecourse car park – but on a different day.’

‘Did she say anything to him?’

‘No. She watched him through field-glasses and he went off in the direction of the racecourse.’

‘This was . . .?’

‘On the Wednesday before.’

‘He was acting suspiciously and she didn’t report him?’

‘Oh, but she did. Both women did. And there was a quick response from us.’

‘Us?’

‘Uniform. They seem to have used the softly, softly approach, but that’s what they’re encouraged to do. These were misdemeanours.’

‘They spoke to the guy?’

‘At the boot sale, they did, for sure. The pie woman didn’t think much of the way they dealt with him. She wanted him clapped in irons and sent to Australia, I think.’

‘They must have got his name.’

‘Erm . . . ’ Wigfull looked shamefaced again. ‘He said it was Noddy.’

Diamond didn’t speak. With a throb of concern, he recalled the evening he’d been at the races with Paloma and seen the drunk almost knocked down by horses cantering to the start.

‘I’m only passing on what I was told,’ Wigfull said, misinterpreting the silence.

‘Who were they, these cops?’

‘I didn’t enquire. That didn’t seem important at the time.’

‘Have you told anyone else?’

‘No.’

Diamond put it to him straight. ‘Basically, John, you were out of order. You goofed. You had no business talking to witnesses. You told me just now you’re the PR guy.’

‘Media Relations Manager.’

‘Call it what you like, you’re here to deal with the press. These people are under the impression they reported incidents and we, the police, are dealing with them.’

‘It was just a missing person enquiry. I thought CID wouldn’t want to be bothered with that.’

‘It’s murder now.’

‘I’ll give you their names and addresses.’

‘Thanks a bunch.’

Keith Halliwell was yawning. He’d worked late last evening on the skeleton case, sifting through missing persons data. Diamond wanted it known by everyone at Bath police station that the murder team were actively investigating, even though the crime must have happened years earlier. And now it had been overtaken by this new discovery.

‘Wishing you were elsewhere, Mr Halliwell?’ Dr Sealy, the pathologist, asked.

‘I’m okay.’

‘I know you’re okay. You’re not going to faint like some first-timer. I’m asking if you’re bored.’

‘No.’

‘Because I can promise something of particular interest when we get to it.’

‘Really?’

Up to now all that had happened was a slow disrobing of the dead man. As each garment was removed the police photog rapher stepped in and took a picture.

‘Where exactly are we on identification?’ Dr Sealy asked, sipping coffee during another photo interval. ‘Do you need any pointers from me, birthmarks, scars, tattoos?’

‘My guvnor, Mr Diamond, says he knows the name.’

‘Your Mr Diamond is a smart cookie. Isn’t he the one who demonstrated that the bloodstaining on the gravestone was put there deliberately?’

‘True.’

‘He didn’t endear himself to Mr Duckett, the CSI man.’

That wasn’t the point, Halliwell felt like saying, but he settled for a shrug.

Dr Sealy added, ‘Duckett would have found the blade of grass eventually, I’m certain. Quite properly he gave his first attention to the body. Who is the victim, then? You’d better introduce us before I take liberties with him.’

Stripping a man to his boxer shorts was a liberty in Halliwell’s book, but he guessed the pathologist meant more. ‘The name is Rupert Hope and he lectured on history at Bristol University.’

‘He’s history himself now.’

‘True.’

Halliwell had never been much of a conversationalist. He was here for a purpose and so was the pathologist and he didn’t see the need to be sociable. If something of particular interest was about to be revealed he wanted to know what it was. There was nothing obvious.

Dr Sealy peeled off the boxer shorts and dropped them into a plastic evidence bag. ‘If I were one of his students I wouldn’t sit in the front row. He hasn’t changed his underwear for some time.’

‘He was living rough.’

‘A lecturer living rough? And why was that, do you think? Some sort of field trip experience, seeing how the great unwashed lived in times past?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You’re the detective, not me. Let’s see if this gives you an idea.’

Halliwell’s eyes were on the body part just revealed. Nothing about it looked remarkable, let alone capable of inspiration.

But Dr Sealy had taken a step sideways and was standing at the end of the dissection table. ‘The interesting bit, the head wound. There’s no other external injury, so it deserves our attention. Step closer, Mr Halliwell, and take a proper look.’

The dead man’s head was propped on a block, allowing a view of the back of the skull.

Halliwell wasn’t squeamish. He eyed the split flesh and blood-matted hair in a dispassionate way. ‘So?’

‘You’re not really looking, are you? What do you see?’

‘A deep wound, deep enough to kill him.’

‘Agreed, but there’s something else.’

‘You’ve got me there.’

‘I think I have.’ Sealy pointed with his gloved finger. ‘Here, to the right of the laceration, some healing has taken place.’

‘After death?’ Halliwell bent closer and saw for himself the remnants of a scab with pink new skin forming a line more than two inches long. ‘How can that be?’

‘You’re looking at a wound that was made when Rupert Hope was still alive. A separate wound, just to the right of the fatal blow inflicted later. What we have, Mr Halliwell, is evidence that this unfortunate man was struck on the back of the skull twice within a few weeks. The first time wasn’t fatal. The second plainly was.’

11

A
fresh corpse, the unfortunate Rupert Hope, had to be a new priority for Peter Diamond. Another press conference, irksome, but necessary. He’d already asked John Wigfull to set it up for 2.30 p.m., in time to make the evening news and morning papers. The story that Rupert was the missing cavalier was a gift to headline writers. With luck, some witnesses would get in touch by tomorrow. Then they’d need interviewing. This new case was going to stretch his resources. Not an insurmountable problem, he thought. He’d ask Georgina to add some manpower.

The Assistant Chief Constable didn’t see it his way.

‘Peter, it isn’t on,’ she told him across her great mahogany desk. She was in uniform as usual, glittering with silver braid and buttons.

‘What isn’t, ma’am?’ he said.

‘Another murder enquiry.’

He tilted his head as if he must have misheard. ‘It’s our job. We can’t pick and choose. If two come together we have to cope. All I’m asking is that you open another box of bobbies.’

‘Not possible.’

‘Plenty of keen young coppers are out there wasting their time on binge-drinkers and pre-school kids nicking sweets from corner shops. They’d jump at a chance to work on a murder.’

‘You’re not listening.’ Georgina wasn’t listening either, but she outranked him. ‘I’m saying we can’t take this on.’

‘Where’s it going, then? We can’t walk away from it.’

‘Bristol.’

His buttocks went into spasm. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘The victim came from there.’

‘Yes, but the killing was on our patch, not theirs.’

She inhaled and her twin emblems of disquiet threatened to surge across the desk and demolish him. ‘What do you mean by “
theirs
” ? We’re in the same constabulary.’

‘I’ve got a crime scene going on Lansdown Hill.’

‘Peter, I don’t need to tell you, of all people, that the scene ceases to be of interest after forensics have been through. The body has been removed. All the interest will now shift to Bristol, where Rupert Hope spent ninety-nine per cent of his time.’

A one-man mutiny threatened. ‘You’re seriously proposing to make them a gift of this?’

‘I just told you. They’re Avon and Somerset, the same as we are.’

‘But I’ve called a press conference this afternoon.’

‘Go ahead with it. Tell them this will be conducted from Bristol. Any calls to this station can easily be transferred.’

‘What exactly is the problem here?’ he said, trying to stay reasonable. ‘Is it the skeleton? That’s been buried twenty years. It can go on the back burner while we deal with Rupert Hope.’ The imagery wasn’t the most elegant, but she knew what he meant.

‘It cannot,’ Georgina said. ‘You’ve set up an incident room and spoken to the press. Your people are working on the case.’

‘They’re on the new case as well. Halliwell is at the post mortem as we speak. Ingeborg Smith is checking hostels for the homeless in case the victim stayed there.’

‘It’s not efficient to have the same officers investigating two unconnected murders. I can’t justify it to Headquarters.’

She had a point there. He was running out of arguments. His brain whirred. ‘How about this? I hand the skeleton case to Keith Halliwell. The whole bag of tricks. He’s got years of experience and he’s ready to lead an enquiry. Then I can give all my attention to the cavalier.’

‘And have two incident rooms going simultaneously? Not in my police station. I’ve made a decision, Peter. This is final.’

‘I thought you’d have more confidence in me,’ he said, forced to play the loyalty card. ‘I haven’t messed up a case since you arrived here. This isn’t such a sticky one. It could be sorted in a couple of days.’

‘Why do you always think it’s about you?’ she said with a sharp intake of breath. ‘It’s resources. The case goes to Bristol. Now would you go back to work? I have calls to make.’

Desperation drove him to say, ‘What I meant when I mentioned Halliwell is that it frees me up to go to Bristol and head the enquiry from there.’

She stared at him as if he’d just performed a pirouette. His dislike of change was known to everyone in Bath. ‘You’re willing to relocate to Bristol?’

‘It’s a short drive when the traffic is light. I’ll be getting there early and coming back late.’ He could hardly believe he was speaking these words.

Georgina gripped the arms of her chair, unsettled.

He added, ‘And Halliwell deserves a case of his own.’

She’d gone silent. She was definitely wavering.

He dangled a real tempter in front of her. ‘You won’t see me for at least a week.’

That did it.

‘If you’re that keen, I’ll see what can be done. I’ll have to speak to colleagues there.’ Her eyes rolled upwards. ‘They don’t know what’s about to hit them.’

He left her office wondering if he’d made the right decision. There wasn’t time to ponder it for long. The press conference was in twenty minutes and he needed to bone up on the details.

When Halliwell returned from the post mortem Diamond was winding up with the press. He’d made his prepared statement and given follow-up interviews for radio and television.

Ingeborg was outside the briefing room with eyes that had just seen a unicorn.

‘What’s up?’ Halliwell asked.

‘The boss said the incident room will be in Bristol Central. He’s in charge and he’s going to be there.’

‘That’s news to me.’

‘It’s about resources, he told them. Plus the fact that the dead man spent most of his time in Bristol.’

‘Resources? Doesn’t sound like the guv’nor talking,’ Halliwell said. ‘What’s got into him?’

Diamond emerged, bouncy as ever. ‘There you are, Keith, back from the dead. What’s the story?’

Halliwell told him about the partly healed wound at the back of the victim’s head. ‘Dr Sealy says it could well have caused concussion and loss of memory.’

‘Which may explain his odd behaviour.’ Diamond rubbed his hands. ‘This is good, Keith. We must step up our enquiries here in Bath.’ He paused before adding, ‘When I say “we” I’m not including you, old chum.’

Halliwell reddened. ‘Why not?’

‘Don’t look so suspicious. I’ve got terrific news for you. As from this moment you’re heading the skeleton investigation.’

‘Get away.’

‘Check with Georgina if you like. It’s official.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘That’s more like the man I know.’ He clapped a hand on Halliwell’s shoulder. ‘You owe us all a drink.’

‘But what about you, guv?’

‘I’ll be handling the new case – and from Bristol. You don’t have to cheer. It’s only temporary.’

‘What about me?’ Ingeborg asked. ‘Who am I with?’

Diamond looked over his shoulder to check that no one else was listening. ‘For the record, you’re with Keith, right? I’m not asking you to come to Bristol. But I need someone here I can rely on, and you may find yourself doing things for me between whiles.’ She frowned. ‘Serving two masters?’

‘We’re not ogres.’

‘I’ll find out, won’t I?’

Diamond let that pass. He needed her good will. ‘As a first step, find me the two patrol car officers who met Rupert Hope.’ ‘Now, you mean?’

‘I could be in Bristol tomorrow.’

A remark of Georgina’s had stayed with him longer than anything else she’d said.
It’s not efficient to have one officer investigating two
unconnected murders.
But were they unconnected?

The two sets of human remains on Lansdown had been found within a couple of miles of each other and had little else to link them that Diamond could fix on. They were separated by about twenty years, by the method of disposal and the sex and age of the victims. Lansdown was the one discernible link. It would not be wise to make too much of that.

And yet . . .

The repeated trips up the hill to one crime scene or the other kept reinforcing his hunch that these cases were linked. Over the years he’d often driven along the great limestone ridge and got the idea that it was isolated, a suitable place to commit murder and dump a body. Only in recent days had he become aware that the down buzzed with activity at weekends, not just occasional horse-racing, but golf, football, kites and model aircraft, car boot sales, dog walking and rambling. All this on a site with a proven history dating back to the Iron Age. Maybe the Lansdown Society had a point. Someone needed to keep an eye on things.

Towards the end of the afternoon two nervous-looking constables in uniform were ushered into his office by Ingeborg.

‘You’re the pair who spoke to the man whose body has been found?’

The male constable was holding his cap in front of him, twisting it like the steering wheel he would rather have been behind. ‘I’m Andy Sullivan, sir, and this is PC Beal.’

‘Doesn’t she have a name?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You want me to call you Andy and your sidekick PC Beal.’

The young woman at Sullivan’s side said, ‘Denise, sir.’ She looked straight out of school, with fine, blonde hair pinned up and pale skin of the kind that obviously coloured at the slightest personal remark.

‘You were sent to deal with an incident up at the racecourse, right?’

Andy Sullivan asserted his seniority as spokesman. ‘Two incidents on different days, in point of fact. It just happened that we got the job both times. The first was suspicious behaviour, tampering with car doors. We met the complainants, a Major Swithin and his wife, but the suspect had already left when we arrived. He was seen heading for the enclosure area. We conducted a search and unfortunately didn’t find him.’

Denise Beal cleared her throat. She’d turned beetroot red this time. ‘Actually, I did find him.’

Sullivan swung to face her.

‘Behind one of the grandstands,’ she said.

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘No. I kept it to myself.’

‘Why was that?’ Diamond asked before Sullivan waded in.

‘I, um, thought he was simple.’

‘The suspect – or Andy Sullivan.’

The joke fell flat. Neither smiled. Diamond wished he hadn’t spoken. ‘You spoke to the man whose body has been found?’ he said to get Denise started again.

‘I didn’t know who he was.’

Sullivan said, ‘This is totally new to me.’

She said, ‘You were a long way off at the time.’

‘You’d gone different ways?’ Diamond said.

Sullivan said, ‘I was checking the stables.’

‘You sent her round the enclosure area while you took a stroll along the racecourse? How long have you been in the police, Denise?’

‘Six weeks, sir.’

Diamond gave Sullivan a look and passed no comment. There were bigger issues here. ‘So what did you say to the guy?’

‘I asked him what he was doing there and who he was. I was trying to keep him talking until Andy arrived.’

‘Did he identify himself ?’

She bit her lower lip and looked even more the nervous schoolgirl. ‘He said he was known as Noddy.’

‘Are you sure?’ The troubling image returned of the man at the races he’d taken for a drunk. ‘Did you ask for a proper name?’

‘I tried. He didn’t seem to have an answer. That’s why I thought he was simple. I couldn’t smell drink on his breath. He was smelly from living rough, not boozing. I asked if he’d just come from the car park and he didn’t seem to know. In the end I let him walk away. I didn’t tell Andy – PC Sullivan – because he’d told me to keep the suspect talking if I met him and I’d failed.’

The hell with Andy Sullivan’s hurt feelings. ‘Did you notice anything about his speech?’

‘Yes. He had quite a nice voice. Educated.’

Definitely the same man. ‘But some aftershave would have improved him?’

She smiled. ‘Or a shower.’

‘So how did you deal with him?’

‘I told him to keep away from the car park.’

‘Because the major and his wife were still there?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘You felt sorry for him?’

‘He didn’t act like a villain.’

‘All right,’ Diamond said, and brought Sullivan back into the discussion. ‘The second time you were called to deal with this man was when?’

‘Sunday morning, sir. We were told he’d been nicking food at the car boot sale.’

‘I know a bit about this,’ Diamond said, to keep it brief. ‘This was the hot meat pie.’

‘The woman said she’d made a citizen’s arrest, but I thought we could deal with it on the spot,’ Andy Sullivan said. ‘I asked him his name and got the same answer.’

‘Noddy?’

‘It wasn’t as cheeky as it sounds,’ Denise piped up. ‘He did do a lot of nodding while he was talking to us. I can understand someone calling him that.’

‘And you?’ Diamond asked Sullivan. ‘Did you think he was taking the piss?’

He swallowed hard. ‘It didn’t come across like that. He was serious. He didn’t seem to know much about himself apart from the name. I tried to find out where he lived and didn’t get a proper answer.’

Denise confirmed it. ‘He said he slept anywhere he could find that was dry.’

‘Like a refuge?’

‘I don’t think he knew,’ Sullivan said. ‘You know how you can tell from someone’s eyes that they’re not all there?’

‘What else did you discover?’

‘That was about it, sir. Unfortunately, it got out of hand after that because the pie lady attacked another woman and we had to separate them.’

‘Both of you?’

‘I asked PC Beal to do it, being a woman, handling another woman, like. And when we’d sorted that —’

‘When Denise had sorted it.’

‘Yes. The suspect had gone.’

‘Which saved you a lot of paperwork.’

‘We didn’t let him go on purpose, sir.’

‘I’m not suggesting it. You must have heard by now that your man Noddy has been identified as Rupert Hope, a university lecturer who has been missing for a couple of weeks. His picture was in the
Chronicle.
’

‘I haven’t seen it,’ Sullivan said.

‘I haven’t seen it,’ Sullivan ‘Nor me,’ Denise added.

‘You want to listen to what your sergeant tells you at morning parade. This was the man who was murdered in Lansdown cemetery. He was probably suffering from memory loss when you spoke to him. The post mortem showed he took a heavy blow to the head about two weeks before he was killed.’